


Dormiveglia

by veyl



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, jesse makes hanzo happy ok, one lazy summer day and some kissing, soft warm feelings i hope, sorry - Freeform, thats it thats all i got
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-02
Updated: 2017-02-02
Packaged: 2018-09-21 15:11:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9554075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/veyl/pseuds/veyl
Summary: Loving Jesse is easy.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ikkanrana](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=ikkanrana).



He wakes with dream bruised eyes. 

If there had been any dreams, he does not remember them, but he judges that there must have been by the sort of drunken heaviness that lingers when he wakes, the kind that exists in the deep shade under the rich crowns of trees. Jesse’s arm is slung across his side, keeping him pinned, heavy and warm and familiar. The sheets are hot, the beds on the base are not meant to be shared and, though they had managed to squeeze in, it is through a tangle of limbs. There is a thin layer of sleep sweat on them both, but it is not the sticky cold sweat that drowns them after nightmares; sleeping next to one another was never a foolproof solution, but it helped. Hanzo wraps his arms around Jesse when he feels him stirring, his Jesse who smells like heat and cigarillos and when Hanzo kisses the hollow of his shoulder he tastes the salty sweet, sun kissed flavour of his skin.

Sunlight curls in through the bare window, making Jesse struggle for a moment with the light in his eyes, a losing battle against the morning. Eventually he sighs his defeat, resigned as he pushes away the tangle of covers around his legs, the grip of limbs around his body, the knots caught in his hair. He rolls over to get up, but leans back when he hears Hanzo’s small protests against the loss of sticky skin closeness and kisses the top of his head. “Mornin’, sweetheart,” he murmurs and Hanzo has to bury his face into the pillow, his heart hurts so much from love, overweight with feeling like an apple tree bowed under the weight of ripe, sweet smelling fruit. Somewhere between the soft folds of the pillow he whispers good morning back. 

Jesse lets him get up in his own time, though he happily provides other, not entirely unhelpful distractions to keep Hanzo from following the siren call back into some half-dream state between the sheets of his bed. He can’t find a clean shirt so he comes back to tickle Hanzo’s neck with his nose and steal what he calls wake-up kisses, making him laugh. One of life’s greatest pleasures must be waking up to laugh.

They expect a slow day on the base, summer drowsy and hot, maybe a day down at the beach with the rest of the team, under makeshift sunshades and thick layers of sunscreen that were sure to melt on their skin and paint the water oily. 

It takes a bit for them both to get ready. Hanzo moves like a crawl of thoughts through the space of the tiny room, catching on every edge and knob, until Jesse takes pity on him and takes him by the hand, softly leading towards a cacophony of rich spices that travel through the halls. The dining area is bathed in the early morning enchantments peering in through tall windows; a sun-swept summer goldenglow echoing around the dust cold walls, coupled by an August heat that takes out every bit of chill from its stone heavy bones. It is alive with chatter, an occasional clanking of dishes drowning out the sleepy cheerful good-mornings exchanged between bites of toast and sips of coffee. 

Sometimes Hanzo is struck by how strangely domestic life among these people can be and how different it is to what he and Genji had known about family, born and raised in an entirely different joining of tradition and culture; how in spite of all the clashing cultures in this one room they all seem to find a certain degree of comfort and understanding. How he, despite his lingering conviction, does not terribly mind this warm microcosm they create. 

He is a little overwhelmed again, a little preoccupied with this not entirely foreign thought and it must show on his face in that way only Jesse can read because he places his hand on the back of Hanzo’s neck and smiles at him, and leans in to ask in a whisper if Hanzo would like to spend the day away from the noise instead. Slowly, like he is not sure at first, Hanzo shakes his head. He adds on a smile for reassurance when Jesse checks in with him again, it is not the bad sort of feeling that sometimes visits unwanted and unannounced, at least Hanzo doesn’t think so. He might need a moment or two to gather himself, to breathe, but he does wish to share in the good energy that gathers achingly in the off-time between the bad days.

Later when he has had his fill of the sun, the sea and the sand, he steals Jesse away again and whispers kisses into his mouth just because he can. Sometimes he is still not entirely sure why Jesse even wants him, but loving Jesse is easy. Easier than drawing the bowstring. Easier than breathing. The funny thing is, he never really put much worth of thought into love before he met Jesse. Love was as fleeting as the fall of sakura petals; oh, he had welcomed passing lovers into his bed, but he never loved them for more than a night. He had made a familiar dance of loving and letting go. As he became older and the space between the lonely nights grew colder, he learned to convince himself that he is content with loneliness. 

And then, if he was perfectly honest, he had half-expected Jesse to be gone after they first slept together. When he awoke in Jesse’s embrace and the foolish cowboy smiled at him like Hanzo were a thousand suns he might have wept through the tightness in his heart. If Jesse had let him go then, Hanzo was not sure what would have become of him. But Jesse had held on, kissed him years later like he was quite content to be constantly relearning the shape and texture of Hanzo’s lips. 

Easy, like the play of shadow over stone. Like the sound of waves over sand.

**Author's Note:**

> Dormiveglia: The space that stretches between sleeping and waking.


End file.
